


Where You Aim Might Just Hit

by Sionnach



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sionnach/pseuds/Sionnach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War doesn't stop just because it's Christmas. WWII/Fighter pilot AU. Includes nurse!Arthur and patient!Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where You Aim Might Just Hit

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [queenofinfinite](http://queenofinfinite.livejournal.com/) in January 2011 for an Inception Holiday exchange.
> 
> Title from _Dirty Day_ by U2.
> 
> This is a WWII!Inception AU and I’ll be the first to admit that I _definitely_ took liberties with history on this one. I did some basic research on fighter planes from the time period but they may be a year or so early for the time period of this fic!

_They said be careful where you aim  
'cause where you aim you just might hit_  
 _Dirty Day_ \- U2

 **December 24th, 1942  
Near the Rhine River - Germany  
9:15 p.m.**

The dials on the dashboard all pointed to _make peace with your maker while you can, because any minute now you might end up in flames_. For what felt like a lifetime he had tried to get an angle on the bandit's aircraft, all while making sure the bandit wasn't getting an angle on him. It was a dogfight to the end. In war, it was always to the end.

Before the pilot knew it, he had lost sight of the other and shots from the Reggiane had suddenly appeared from behind. He instinctually rolled to avoid them. And yet no matter how quick he was, the gunfire still managed to connect with the belly of the craft. It didn’t take a genius to see that this was a bad sign and to know that if he didn’t try to land as soon as possible, he would either end up blown to smithereens by continued fire or wind up at the bottom of the Rhine. Neither option he was admittingly too fond of.

Ignoring the readings that _The Blonde Forger_ were giving him, he opted to look around at his surroundings. As he kept an eye out for the bandit, he tried desperately to find a place to land. He maneuvered the plane down just as another round of fire started. He would be damned if he let the bastard knock him out of the air without hitting his plane. The pilot flew until he could see the other plane clearly and opened fire. He watched as the plane rolled out of the way but not before parts of the tail was hit.

If he was right – and he was most of the time – he would need to make a hasty landing as soon as possible before he would wind up in the forest or river below in worse shape than he was in already. He rolled to the side and looked all around. When the other plane was in sight and right ahead, he released fire. When he was finished, he pointed the plane down suddenly to head for land. He knew it was coming before he felt it: the shuddering of the plane as bullets hit the outside of the _Blonde Forger_ .The last thing Eames thought of as the ground rushed up to meet the plane was 'If I live through this, I'm going on a fucking man hunt for this bloody bastard.'

\--

Everything hurt.

He was pretty sure there wasn't a place on his body that _didn't_ feel as though it had been ripped to shreds, and then hastily put back together. His arm felt the worst though and he could tell without even opening his eyes and looking at it that it was broken. He should count himself lucky since he should technically be dead right now. Very dead, and not feeling as though his body had been used for target practice.

Behind his closed eyelids he could make out a flickering orange hue and hear a dull crackle amidst the throbbing of his head. All at once, it caught up with him. Enemy gunshots. Planes. Ground. Fire. Something was on fire. He better not be on fire. Fucking hell his head and his arm hurt.

"You're alive, for now. However, I can't say the same for your plane.” Eames groaned at that. He loved his Blonde Forger - she had truly served him well. “Your arm is broken so I suggest we set that before you pass out again."

A voice. Thank god it wasn't German. Course, that didn't mean much in this war, but it did sound nice and calm...if not a little cold and a tad condescending.

When he was sure he wouldn't hurl once he did, Eames slowly began to open his eyes. The world was spinning around him and all he wanted to do was lay there until those feelings subsided. He opened his mouth and went to speak, but only ended up coughing. Smoke had ended up getting into his lungs and made it difficult to talk, let alone breathe.

"Take it easy. I would feel like a real asshole if I had to kill you while you were coughing up a lung."

"How reassuring - really, I feel much safer in your presence," Eames remarked dryly as he could manage after the coughing fit subsided. Eames breathed in and out slowly. Who was this bastard?

Eames felt hot all over, despite his jacket having been removed and the pain in his arm. He was mentally preparing himself for the real pain that would result once his arm was set back in place. However, he knew it needed to be done and if this guy was offering to help, then who was he to refuse? "Look, if you can help set my arm into place, then do it. Let's get it over with already."

"I could have blown your plane apart before you knew what was happening."

Ah, so he was the bloody bastard, was he? If only Eames had the energy to give him a piece of his mind, because there was so much he wanted to say. For the next several minutes Eames heard some shuffling around as he lay on what appeared to be a released parachute underneath a canopy of massive trees, and trying very hard not to shiver from the cold. Next thing Eames knew, branches were next to his head as was a flask and what looked to be a good section of the parachute material.

"Are you ready?" Was he serious? Eames gave him a look that pretty much told him to either fuck off or do it as fucking quick as possible. Apparently the other pilot got the picture as the man knelt down beside him and placed his cold, slender hands over his bare arm, feeling out where the break was. Bloody hell - he was more than ready for this to be over with. Afterward...maybe he would be able give him a piece of his mind. Eames figured it was both a good thing and a bad thing that they were in the middle of a wooded area where they were least likely to be bothered.

The fire from his recently departed and beloved plane was burning brightly giving them enough light to clearly see each other and his rather pathetic looking arm. "Do you want a drink first or anything to bite down on so you don't bite through your tongue?" It was a simple enough question but one he had to literally bite his tongue on as what he wanted to say would not help matters at all.

"It better be something strong." It came out more as a grunt to his ears than he had honestly intended but matters could not be helped. With his unbroken arm, he slowly lifted himself up into a sitting position with minimal help from the man kneeling next to him. He took his time, not honestly wanting this guy to see him become sick to his stomach.

Eames could feel the other's eyes watching him closely before unscrewing the lid on the flask and handing it to him. Eames took it and sniffed it - you could never be too sure after all - before taking a long pull from it. If he died from a poison, then that would really take the cake with the mess that had become his life. He sat the flask down to the side after taking a second pull from it. As he did, he felt the other's hands go back to his arm where the break was. "Do you need something to bite down on?" he repeated.

Eames considered it and knew it was a good idea. Under normal conditions, Eames was rather partial to his tongue. He nodded and took a rather thick piece of bark with his uninjured hand before placing the bark between his teeth. In these situations, you really had to make due with what you had and at the moment, they didn't have much. He wasn't sure what the other man's motive was, but at the present time his plane was currently on fire and it was safe to say that the only items he had were the items on his person, which included a handgun, a flask of whiskey, some fags and a pocket watch... none of which really made for a good thing to bite down on.

Eames nodded toward the other man signaling when he was ready, he growled low in his throat, biting down hard on the bark. Simultaneously, at the count of three, his arm was set back into place. Eames closed his eyes tightly as he breathed in and out slowly and deeply, gaining his bearings and allowing the endorphins to kick in. Fucking hell. He had been through much worse of course, but it still hurt like fuck when a bone that wasn't meant to be broken had to be sat back in place.

Eames could feel the press of wood against where the bone had just been set and removed the bark from his mouth, spitting out dirt afterward. "You're going to have to hold these in place as I wrap the parachute around your arm so it can start to heal." Without opening his eyes, Eames moved his other hand to where the branches were and held them to his arm. "What is your name?" The other pilot was talking again, maybe trying to distract him as though he was some helpless maiden needing saving, but Eames wasn't buying it. The second man wrapped the material around Eames' arm one, two, three even four times before tying it tightly with the cord from the released parachute.

Eames considered lying to him, but the man had set his arm back into place after all and didn't kill him when he had the chance. He figured a name was at the very least, owed. "Eames." He grunted, finally starting to feel a bit more himself. His ribs hurt and he was pretty sure he had a head wound of some kind but the arm was taken care of and that was certainly good.

"Well Eames, so long as you don't move your arm too much or try to shoot me tonight, you should be good to go for now. I'm Arthur."

"Arthur." Eames allowed the name to roll off his tongue. "I can't say it's certainly a pleasure to meet the man who shot me out of the sky." It went without saying that Eames didn't like it when people shot him out of the air. He _especially_ didn't like it when those same people came and pretended to be his saving grace. "But, thank you for helping me with my arm."

"If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't be alive right now, that I can assure you. I have had plenty of opportunity while you were out cold."

It was at that point that Eames looked at this man named Arthur without nausea and dizziness clouding his sight. From what he could tell by the light of the fire, Arthur looked as though he was barely into his early twenties. He was also, upon closer inspection, rather attractive - even if now was definitely _not_ the time. "How old are you?" He reached for the jacket that had been previously set aside so they could attend to his arm and slid his uninjured arm through, wrapping the other side around his shoulders.

Arthur frowned. It seemed the only facial expressions this man - this boy – had that was completely neutral was frowning.

"I hardly believe that's relevant, Mr. Eames."

"On the contrary, I would very much like to know if I was shot down by a kid or not." Eames watched as Arthur grit his teeth together and couldn't help the upward tug at the corners of his mouth. "I would also very much like to know just _why_ you're down here if it wasn't to make sure I died in a fiery plane crash."

"You shot my fucking plane. I had to parachute out before _my_ plane crashed."

Eames couldn't help but let out a laugh; a very painful laugh but a laugh none-the-less. "Fucking hell - that hurts," he groaned, moving his free hand to his chest.

"I'm glad you find this amusing."

"Trust me, _darling_ \- I do not find this amusing at all. It's bloody Christmas Eve, war is surrounding us, I feel as though I've been plummeted into the ground after taking a giant fall - oh wait, I have - and you shot me out of the bloody sky. Not to mention my arm is broken, it's nighttime in December, and on top of that both of us have lost our planes and are currently on German soil. Now unless you're one of the blasted Nazis, we're both pretty much fucked. It's safe to say that I'm pretty far from amused."

"I'm Italian, and you shot me out of the sky as well, I'll have you know." Eames watched as Arthur reached into his inside jacket pocket. In reflex Eames did the same with his uninjured hand and quickly made for his Browning. He was thankful that the arm that had been broken was not his dominant arm, or else he would have been out of luck in this situation.

Eames watched as Arthur look over at him, raised an eyebrow and removed a Browning handgun. He held it up to show Eames before placing it underneath the opposite leg from him. "Look - how about a truce for the rest of the night? Neither of us are fit to honestly do much harm to the other, even though the both of us are armed. It's Christmas Eve and it seems almost _wrong_ to try and kill each other tonight. However, come sunrise it shall be no holds bar - that is if you can manage."

Eames raised an eyebrow and took a minute to think about it. What did Arthur have to gain from _not_ shooting Eames when he wasn't really in the right frame of mind? He studied him silently then removed his Browning from his jacket and set it to his right - just in case. "Right. Be nice to not have to kill you on Christmas Eve, after we've made it this long.” He shrugged. “At least you're not a Nazi." He picked up the flask that he had set down before taking another pull from it then handing it off back to Arthur whom he presumed was the owner of said flask.

Arthur took the flask from him as Eames reached into his jacket pocket and took out his own. "Cheers," he raised the flask in Arthur's direction before he rested the flask between his legs and unscrewed the lid, and then he brought it to his lips.

"We – you – should probably disinfect the wound you have on your head with what's in that flask before drowning your pain with it."

Eames raised his eyebrows at him in slight amusement. "It's charming how you care about whether my arm is set in place or if my wounds become infected."

"I don't, but I rather be at a level playing field tomorrow morning instead of looking at the beginning of a nasty infection on your head, or any other injuries you may have."

"I knew it was for purely selfish reasons. Pretend to care when in reality you're just biding your time."

Arthur merely rolled his eyes in exasperation and took a pull from the flask he held in his hand. "Isn't that what the whole point is? This truce is just biding our time until morning; when we once again return to our roles as enemies and try to off one another before someone else comes by and offs the both of us."

"Well aren't you an optimistic bastard?" Eames mused as he ignored all the pain signals his body was shooting to his brain. It wouldn't help him much by focusing solely on the pain he was in. Not when there was other important things to be doing and focusing on - such as what he would do come morning.

"I'm a realistic bastard. If we don't die out here tonight because of the freezing cold – or you from your injuries because you're being a stubborn asshole about it – then at least we have a more positive chance of survival."

"My god. You really are into this being fair thing come morning, aren't you?" Eames watched as Arthur merely stared at him, and then shook his head ruefully. "Right well - you wouldn't have a piece of extra cloth just lying around would you?"

Eames could tell Arthur was debating with himself before reaching into his jacket pocket and taking out a folded piece of cloth before he handed it to him. He couldn't help the amused smirk that was emerging from his lips as he took it from him. It was rather endearing, really, if you didn't pay much attention to the fact that it was Christmas Eve and the two of them were on two different sides of this war, sitting outside while it was fucking cold and away from civilization. "So you're the type to carry around handkerchiefs are you, darling?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Take it or leave it, Mr. Eames. Besides, don't most men carry around handkerchiefs?"

Eames couldn't help the amused chuckle, although it hurt his ribs to laugh let alone breath in the cold air. "Well I suppose many do, yes but isn't it starting to be a fading trend?"

Arthur glared at him heatedly. "Just clean your wounds before I start to regret not killing you when I had the chance."

Eames grinned in amusement. After resigning himself to the fact that they were indeed stuck with each other for the time being, Eames was starting to find it amusing to poke at Arthur just to see what kind of reactions he would get out of the tight lipped man. Arthur seemed the type of man to have honor. He seemed serious about being at a level-playing field come sunrise when he could have shot and killed Eames before Eames even knew what happened. That was something that even Eames could grudgingly respect. "Wouldn't want that, now would we?" he mused. He took a drink from the flask before pouring some onto the handkerchief. He clenched his teeth together as he brought the handkerchief to the gash on his forehead.

Arthur looked at the soiled handkerchief that Eames only halfheartedly offered to him in disdain. "Keep it.” He paused. “Better yet - burn it."

"How could I do such a thing to a gift that you gave to me - that would be just rude, Arthur. Just rude." Eames' default personality in just about everything he did was to keep things light and easy going. That wasn't to say that he didn't know what he was doing - he did and he was damn good at what he did too. Some even say the best. Even so, Eames knew when it was time to do a job and when it was time to take it easy because there wasn't much he could do. For the last few years he had been pretty much running on autopilot with option one. Out here though, underneath the stars and trees with a burning plane in front of them, Eames felt like he could switch to option two for a few hours.

"You know, rumor has it that if you keep rolling your eyes like that - they may stay like that. What kind of pilot would you be in that case, dear Arthur?"

"I knew I should have taken that shot."

\--

Eames had had a moment of silence for the passing of his beloved plane. It would take a long time to get used to another if he lived through this but he was nothing if not confident in his abilities. He turned his attention to Arthur and curled his lips up in an amused smile. "You are a much better nurse than I've ever had the pleasure of ever having."

Arthur frowned. "You call me a nurse again tonight and you won't live to see Christmas morning, Mr. Eames."

This caused an even broader grin to emerge upon his lips. Arthur's reactions were certainly proving to be amusing if nothing else. Eames brought his flask up to his lips and took another drink from it before responding. "I'm just expressing my appreciation for your hands, Arthur. Truly." After all, they were rather nice hands.

"You're drunk."

Eames couldn't help the chuckle at Arthur's complete dismissal and dry response. He was certainly far from drunk but the alcohol had numbed the pain to a bearable amount. "On the contrary - I'm quite sober given the circumstances."

"My god, are you doing this on purpose?" Arthur scowled at him. Eames suspected that even Arthur must have been slightly amused. After all, there really wasn't much around in terms of entertainment, and Arthur could have surely knocked him out if he was truly annoyed.

"Your reactions are highly entertaining and considering where we are sitting, I would say there is an eighty to ninety-five percent chance that yes, I am doing this on purpose. "

\--

"Do you ever sit still? Your arm is broken, I'm sure your ribs are cracked, and yet you're still constantly moving. I thought alcohol was supposed to slow you down, not speed you up." There was that frown again.

"Why? Does it make you nervous?" Eames smirked in amusement. It had only been a few hours and yet Eames had more fun talking to a man he had only known for a few hours than many he had worked with for years. Of course, that may have been because they were able to be men for the night, and not soldiers.

"Not particularly, no."

"Irritated? Snappish? Unsettled? My money is on snappish and irritated. Am I right?"

Arthur scowled at him again. "Eames. I swear to you --"

"Now, now - don't go making promises you won't keep, Arthur dear. If you wanted to kill me, you would have done so long before now. Your truce, remember?" Eames said casually with a smirk. If anything, this was a very good distraction from how cold it was.

"Don't remind me. I'm already regretting that one." The words were clipped but even Eames could spot the upward curl of Arthur's lips.

\--

"You said you were on the Italian side - are you a fighter pilot for the Italians? Mole?" The fact remained the same - they tentatively had a truce until sunrise. Eames would do what he had to do and yet, although he would not tell anyone this should he be asked, he would hate to have to kill Arthur in a situation such as this. It's situations and times like these that they warn you about, he supposed. As far as he was concerned, he felt as though, for these next several hours - they were just men talking. Eames knew logically that at any given minute, the truce could be broken and shots could be fired. He wasn't afraid of death. If he died tomorrow or in the next year, it wouldn't be without a fight and it would be doing something he was proud of.

"If I told you that - I _would_ have to kill you. You know I'm a fighter pilot, obviously, so let's keep it at that."

Eames looked at Arthur and studied his features silently for a few minutes. Who was this man? "Right. So then, what is an American like you doing with the Italians?" Talk was cheap, especially seeing that there wasn't much else to do now that they've built a fire and tended to injuries. And seeing that there wasn't much else to do other than sit and watch the flames – and think about how screwed they were – asking questions seemed like the best way to pass the time.

"Family pride - pride in general." Arthur answered after a few minutes of silence. He shrugged slightly as he looked at Eames.

"Come again?"

"It really doesn't take a psychoanalyst to figure this out, Eames. Pride contributes to cause and effect, doesn't it? If you wanted me to be specific though, most of my family still lives in Italy. I felt I needed to show my support to Mussolini so that I could help protect them."

"We'll then - that's a good enough reason as any." It was. It made sense. Pride was a big contributor in anything that men did these days. It shouldn't have surprised him but it did. When you were in the middle of it all - the war and the military - you were made to see black and white. This is an enemy. This is your ally. You shoot or are shot at. You kill or be killed. It was difficult to remember often times that these people that you're fighting against have families waiting back home and lives outside of what they're doing. Eames supposed that was the point though - if you only see that they are the enemy then it was easier to kill them and to know that you're doing something good for your country.

Eames pulled out his pocket watch once the silence became too much to bear. Eames shifted so he was able to read the time from what light was coming from the fire then opened it. "According to my watch, there's twenty minutes until the clock strikes midnight and it'll be Christmas morning. Is there anything that you're wishing for this year, Arthur?"

"So _you're_ the type to have a pocket watch, are you?" Arthur turned to look at Eames with a raised eyebrow as he threw Eames' words back at him from his crack about Arthur's handkerchief.

"Being jealous of my pocket watch won't get you anywhere, Arthur. I would give you this one as you gave me your handkerchief, only I'm fairly certain that you have one on you at this minute. Not to mention, I need this to know what time it is. Now, what would you like for Christmas this year?" he repeated his question as he looked at Arthur, his lips quirking up.

While Eames still had some level of distrust for the man at his side - that was to say, he would not be falling asleep anytime soon - he had slowly started to enjoy the other's company. Not only for his amusement's sake; he honestly and truly enjoyed it. Arthur was intelligent, could quickly think on his feet, and prepared for any situation that arose - if his being alive and his makeshift cast was any indication. Although Eames felt as though Arthur could be a stickler for the rules, which was both a good thing and a bad thing - he also seemed capable and honorable.

"To be done with this bloody war."

Eames gave him a rueful smile. "That goes without saying." Eames was certainly ready to be done as well. "I meant for you, personally. No wanting to go see a girlfriend? Wife? Boyfriend? Don't give me that look - it's a perfectly reasonable question. I can take it."

Arthur just shook his head at Eames with a faint smile before looking at the fire again. "You talk far too much. No - there are no girlfriends or wives or boyfriends or anything of the like. "

Eames ignored the dig at his talking and just gave him a grin. "Can't say that's a shame."

Arthur chuckled causing a surprised look to cross over Eames' face. Eames watched as Arthur cleared his throat then just gave him a smile. "So what is it that _you_ want for Christmas this year, Mr. Eames?"

Christmas. He honestly never gave it much thought considering he had been flying toward France and he hadn't planned on celebrating it. It had been the last thing on his mind when there were bigger problems out there. He thought about it for a few minutes. "Personally - I rather be alive to see Christmas NEXT year. That, and there still remains my burning curiosity regarding how old you are." He finished with a grin at Arthur, bringing them back to his question from earlier.

Arthur just looked at Eames in amusement. "I admit - the first wish is a much wiser wish than the second. I'm not sure how my age has much relevance."

Eames shrugged his shoulders with a grin. "It was worth a shot. Mainly, I'm just curious."

"I suppose so." Arthur paused for a few moments then answered, "I'm twenty-eight."

Eames smiled.

"You realize that counting down the seconds to Christmas isn't as eventful as counting down the seconds to the New Year is, right?" Ah, there was the condescension again from his partner for the night.

Eames just looked at Arthur with a faux frown before shaking his head sadly. "Shh - where is your Christmas spirit, Arthur? Just because we're in the middle of a war, in the middle of a forest in the middle of the night, doesn't mean that you have to be a grouch about it. Besides, who knows if either of us will be alive come the New Year? Have to make every second count, yeah?" He turned his eyes back to the watch and thought over the past several hours. Although he was sure he and Arthur were as different as any two men could be in their modes of working and personality, he was interested in what Arthur was like outside of the war, outside of the military. Eames didn't feel as though he really had much to lose at this point. It was seconds away from midnight on Christmas Eve and they currently weren't surrounded by death, sadness or depression. If he took a shot, as was his reputation, then either Arthur would respond in kind or he would add another injury to the list of other injuries he had acquired.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him with a quirk of his lips. "You realize you almost said the same thing earlier when you first woke up right? Instead I believe the words - you were not amused - fell in there some where."

Eames shook his head at him with an almost fond smile. "Well - that has changed. There is also the fact that I've had much whiskey and the endorphins are running high in my body right now. By the way - Happy Christmas, Arthur-who-tried-to-kill-me-only-hours-ago-but-has-since-been-the-best-nurse-I-could-ask-for." He leaned over and pressed his lips to Arthur's in a soft and prolonged kiss.

"Eam -- "

Eames fully expected a gun to be pressed to his head at any second once the shock wore off. It never happened. Only the tentative press of Arthur's lips against his. Slowly, Eames pulled away and gave Arthur his most dashing grin. "Just say Happy Christmas, Eames and don't try to shoot me in the head. Once sunrise hits, you can by all means."

Arthur's face went through a mix of emotions; it almost appeared as though he might punch Eames or even break his other arm. Thankfully neither of those happened and his face settled into small smile. "Happy Christmas, Mr. Eames."

Slipping his free hand into his jacket pocket where he had tucked the soiled cloth, Eames fingered the fabric and grinned at Arthur. "Happy Christmas, indeed."


End file.
